


Reactive

by My_Beating_Hart



Series: A Mahariel's Travels [57]
Category: Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Arcane Warrior, Gen, Gen Work, I have no idea what to tag this as, Light Angst, Seizures
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-10
Updated: 2016-01-10
Packaged: 2018-05-13 01:53:51
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,881
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5690095
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Beating_Hart/pseuds/My_Beating_Hart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Theron picked the gem up, turning it over in his hand. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. As he straightened up the world abruptly swam before his eyes and his skin prickled alarmingly. For a brief second, his armour felt far heavier than it should, too stiff and restrictive for leather.<br/>Something settled in his mind’s eye - a pair of gauntleted hands that were too pale to be his own, but he was looking down at them as if they were his. They glowed a soft purple - magic - as one gripped at a sword that was also consumed by the glow. Then he blinked, and the image was gone.</p><p>(AKA Theron's reaction to getting the Arcane Warrior specialisation)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Reactive

The bowels of the ruin were freezing, but that didn’t put off the walking skeletons or other reanimated dead at all. They were mildly better than the werewolves, at least. After cleaning out the latest room, Theron paused in his looting when he noticed something glimmering amidst a pile of debris. Curious, he went over and carefully nudged at the pile with one foot.

A small cylinder rolled out, the faceted glass glittering red as it rolled to a stop. The ranger crouched in front of it, and realised the cylinder was filled with something that looked an awful lot like fresh blood, despite how the pile of debris it had been a part of was dusty and rotten with age.

Theron picked the gem up, turning it over in his hand. It was surprisingly warm to the touch. As he straightened up the world abruptly swam before his eyes and his skin prickled alarmingly. For a brief second, his armour felt far heavier than it should, too stiff and restrictive for leather.

Something settled in his mind’s eye - a pair of gauntleted hands that were too pale to be his own, but he was looking down at them as if they were his. They glowed a soft purple - magic - as one gripped at a sword that was also consumed by the glow. Then he blinked, and the image was gone.

Theron stared down in confused disbelief at the gem in his hand. What had just happened? Something in the back of his mind that hadn’t been there before stirred. A thrill of foreign alarm passed through him, and he gripped the gem tighter. The Presence recoiled, the alarm replaced by fear.

The images returned; dark stone lit by magelight and lightning magic, bloodstains shimmering. A sword clattered to the ground, the purple glow fading from the blade. There was a sudden tightening in Theron’s chest, as if something was gripping at his heart, or it was too big for his ribs. Loneliness and homesickness too deep for words made him ache. He took a careful breath in, and the feelings slowly eased.

There was another hazy blur of images, more flashes of a life that wasn’t his, as if the Presence was searching for something. Abruptly they stopped, and there was only a lingering confusion.

Theron shivered, but decided to return the action and let the Presence see his own memories in turn - from childhood to the present. Not everything, of course, but enough. The Presence was silent as it absorbed the information, and Theron could feel the slight mental shifting of acceptance as it decided he was real and not a fantasy.

It wasn’t so much images as emotions that flooded his mind next. A yawning, ceaseless boredom followed by helpless rage and frustration that made him want to scream, the itch of insanity that grew and swelled like a poisonous mushroom, the relative peace of sleep that served as interludes.

The memories took him back further, returning to the heavy armour and worn grip of a sword hilt as the air hummed and crackled with magic from his - no, the Presence’s - fingertips. A mage wearing armour, the sword held aloft triumphantly, Elvish spilling from her lips. Everything was faintly blurred, like through a fog. Old memories, clearly from a long, long time ago. Theron blinked, replaying the memories again for himself. So many questions… The Presence listened, and like a patient _haharen_ answered as best as it could.

More armoured mages in silvered armour. The ruins around them, before they were ruins. Spells woven and channelled not into the elements like normal mages, but into their wielders. Unmatched strength, endurance to rival the Wardens, the ability to create shields out of thin air.

This was a lifetime of knowledge as vast as the forest itself. It was all the Presence could offer now, he could sense it. There were more images and emotions. The Presence wanted to teach him it, a fellow Dalish.

Theron recalled the feeling of his bow, the creak of the string and the agility his leather armour afforded him. The lessons his Keeper had given him, trying to coax his magic out in vain. He couldn’t wield magic.

The Presence seemed to respond without needing words. Other mages, then. Teach them, if you wish. Pass on the knowledge and memories. The feeling radiating from the Presence shifted to the peace of sleep, but deeper and without end. It - she, wanted oblivion afterwards.

A thought struck Theron - one of his own. What if this was some kind of trick? A demon trapped and wanting release? What if it possessed him? The faintest echo of a woman’s laugh replied, and the Presence showed a handful of other memories - the searing heat of a rage demon up close, the anguished howls of other demons when their tempting whispers were denied again and again. Would a demon hunt its own kind?

There was a lull, and Theron belately remembered the present. He was standing still, his body rigid. He was hyperaware of every breath he took, and that alone was enough to panic him. The gem dug tightly into his palm, and he felt oddly lightheaded. His skin prickled again, freezing cold, and his armour still felt heavy against his skin. He could taste cloying ozone in his mouth that didn’t go away when he swallowed. What was happening? He swallowed again, unease making his chest tight again.

The lightheaded feeling increased, his scalp prickling in warning, and then it seemed to trickle down his body until it felt like his feet weren’t on the ground anymore. What was happening? Why wouldn’t it stop? The Presence radiated reassurance in response, and then another series of drifting images that made a single question clear: Do you still wish to learn?

Theron swallowed thickly, trying to ignore the rising panic as his body grew numb and weak; even if he wanted to move, he couldn’t. Yes, he replied.

Once again, the hazy memories flooded his mind. The knowledge of how to wield a sword, despite how he’d never picked one up before in his life. The raw power of having the malleable Fade at his fingertips. How to augment physical skill with magic. Techniques and lessons amassed from an order that was even older than the Wardens, combined with snatches of the Presence’s life again, the wealth of poetics Elvish contained - dozens of full conversations, not just fragmented sayings or the odd word.

Theron let his eyes fall closed to block out the world, leaving his mind and the Presence.

 

“Theron?” Alistair repeated as his patience wore thin, staring at the ranger’s turned back when there was still no response.

“He seems transfixed by that bauble.” Morrigan commented.

“He’s stood there long enough.” Alistair frowned, and he stepped forwards to tap him on the shoulder. “Come on, we have werewolves to kill.”

None of them were expecting Theron to collapse with a choked gasp; Alistair barely managed to catch him in time to prevent him from hitting his head on the stone floor. He quickly let go and stepped back as he watched the ranger’s body begin to shudder and convulse. Zevran swore in alarm behind him.

“What is happening?” The blond elf asked, peering round Alistair’s bulk and frowning in concern. “Is he possessed?”

Morrigan scoffed at that, unsurprisingly.

“Mages are far more likely to be possessed, and Theron is no mage.” She answered, almost casual if it wasn’t for the clipped tone of her voice as all three of them watched in concern.

“Then what is happening to him?”

“There was a Templar recruit back when I was in training who suffered this regularly.” Alistair spoke up. “He’s having a seizure.”

“What do we do?”

“We stay calm, give him space and wait for it to pass.” The human replied, surprised that he was so calm about it. But he’d seen how the senior Templars had cared for the recruit during and after her seizures, and it was rather simple.

“Maybe try and move some of the debris out of the way.” He added, noting how the uncontrollable spasms could lead to bruising or worse if Theron hit something sharp or unyeilding.

“We can’t, say, hold him down?” Zevran asked as he followed Alistair’s suggestion, a rather feeble joke probably made in an attempt to ease at least his own nerves. Alistair shook his head as he reached for his pack.

“He’d only do himself an injury - oh, and don’t put anything in his mouth, either.” The human answered as he dug out a spare shirt from the depths of his pack, folding it quickly. He knelt down and carefully slipped the makeshift pillow under Theron’s head. The elf’s eyes were rolled back in his head and his breathing was sharp but regular gasps - it was like the Joining all over again. They waited.

Eventually, the spasms died down to the occasional twitch, and Alistair breathed a sigh of relief.

“Now what?” Morrigan asked warily from the doorway; she must have gone to make sure they wouldn’t be ambushed by any enemies that lay waiting further on.

“I highly doubt we should stay here, for one.” Zevran answered dryly.

“Let’s go back to the main room. It’s a little safer there.” Alistair suggested as he carefully moved Theron’s limp and shivering form to take off his weaponry and pass them over to Morrigan - surprisingly she didn’t complain. “He’ll probably stay asleep for a while.” He added.

“He’s bleeding.” Zevran noted when Alistair picked Theron up, nodding to one hand that seemed to be covered in blood, small fragments of glass embedded in the skin of his palm and fingers.

“It couldn’t be helped.” Alistair sighed as he led the way out. Theron’s face was ashen and his eyelids were fluttering, but the seizure seemed to have passed.

 

Theron returned to consciousness slowly. His body felt like lead, and his feet seemed non-existent. He tried to think around the pounding in his temples. What had happened? Why was he lying down? Weren’t they in the ruin? He let out a deep breath, awareness slowly filtering back.

He could feel the hard stone floor pressed against his back, the discomfort barely dulled by the thin bedroll. There was a fur draped over him, but he felt cold and… Off. Lightheaded. It took him a few seconds to realise the odd taste in his mouth was blood - presumably his, given how one side of his tongue throbbed in time with his heartbeat.

Taking another steadying breath, he carefully opened one eye and then squinted at the too-bright light that filtered down through the gaps in the stone ceiling overhead.

He tried to sit up, but his body remained unresponsive. Frowning to himself, he tried again and one leg spasmed in rebellion.

“At last, he returns to the living.” A snide voice announced somewhere near him. Morrigan.

“Oh, really?” Someone else asked. That was Alistair.

The former Templar came into Theron’s field of view, leaning over him.

“Are you okay, Theron?”

Theron blinked up at him groggily. That was a question he wasn’t sure how to answer. His brain felt oddly blank. He couldn’t remember falling asleep. How long had he been asleep? _Why_ had he fallen asleep? He couldn’t remember leaving the lower ruins or helping set up camp. In fact, the last thing he remembered was picking something up off the ground. What…?

Alistair looked concerned.

“Can you hear me?” He asked.

Theron was relieved to find he could nod. Just a little, but it helped Alistair to relax. Again, he tried to sit up, but his limbs still felt incredibly weak. Ignoring how his arms twitched and the rest of his body shook, he tried to push himself up into a sitting position, until Alistair stopped him.

“Careful, you shouldn’t push yourself this soon after waking up.”

Theron stared up at the human in confusion.

“Oh. You… Don’t remember it, do you?” The human realised, his relieved smile fading in response to the look of sheer incomprehension. “Alright.” He sighed, frowning in thought. “You had a seizure.” He explained. Theron kept staring. A seizure? When?

“What our strapping young Templar friend is trying to say is that you… Ah, collapsed to the floor and proceeded to deeply unsettle all of us.” Zevran piped up helpfully, misinterpreting the blank look.

“You thought he was possessed.” Morrigan commented.

“Wouldn’t you?” The Antivan replied.

“I am a _mage_ , Crow. We have discussed this-”

“ _Former_ Crow, my dear.”

“I am familiar with possession in a way _you_ are not.”

Alistair rolled his eyes.

“Okay, knock it off, you two. We’re all friends, on paper.” He spoke up before the two could start bickering in earnest.

Theron let his eyes fall closed. He’d had a seizure, and then slept it off. Hm, that explained why his body was so sluggish, and how he’d bitten his tongue.

His third attempt to sit up was met with much less resistance from his own body - although Alistair helped.

It took the ranger a minute or so to realise one hand was also throbbing painfully, and he looked down to see his palm was wrapped in slightly bloodstained bandages.

“You were holding something made of glass just before the seizure. You must have broken it.” Alistair explained.

Something made of glass? That stirred a memory his brain was in no state to recall. His head felt like it was going to split in two still. Everything felt too close and too distant at once - the fur he was under, Alistair sitting beside him, the ruins around them. The light was still too bright.

“Was I… Asleep for long?” He asked, rubbing at his eyes wearily. When there was no response from the others he looked up to see their faintly blank expressions. “What?” He asked, but then he heard himself. He wasn’t speaking Common. It was Elvish. Fluent Elvish.

Theron’s eyes widened in shock, and he looked down at his hands. Had he just asked that question in Elvish? He’d never been able to speak Elvish without thinking about it before, beyond the few words he used regularly like _shemlen_. Why was he suddenly able to do it now? And, just as importantly, why couldn’t he remember anything beyond picking up the glass thing off the ground? Even that was hazy and dreamlike. _Had_ he dreamed it?

When he dared to look up again, it was with new eyes. As he looked around at objects, the Elvish name came to him first, and then the Common.

Theron cleared his throat carefully and tried again.

“How long was I asleep for?” He asked, and was relieved when the words definitely sounded like Common.

“Days.” Morrigan answered quickly, looking bored.

“Not much longer than an hour or two.” Alistair contradicted, glaring at the mage. “How do you feel?”

“Weak. Tired.” Theron shrugged. “Like my head will explode.” He swallowed to try and clear the taste of blood from his mouth. He shook his head carefully. “We should keep going.” He added, carefully getting to his feet. Amusingly, he realised he still had his armour on.

 

The small group retraced their steps through the lower ruins until they came back to the room where it had started. Theron frowned as he stood in the doorway and tried to recall what had happened. There was something nagging at the corner of his mind, but whenever he tried to focus on it, it disappeared like he was trying to catch mist. Something he should remember…

Theron frowned, feeling lost, and then there it was. The memories that weren’t his own came back slowly, apparently unaffected by the seizure. The clanging of swords in a practice yard and the creaking of heavy silver armour as it was pulled off after another long day of training and patrolling. The ozone hum of magic settled deep in his bones, something that he _should_ have had from birth, but had never experienced for himself and never would. The knowledge and memories of the last Arcane Warrior, and that was it. A fleeting glimpse of a single brilliant fragment of his people’s history. As an archer perhaps two-thirds of the limited information was useless to him.

He looked down at his bandaged hand, and the sense of loss increased. What else could he have learnt from the spirit, the brief presence inside his mind? What else could she have shared about their mutual history, if they’d had the time? How had she managed to put her soul inside a hollow gem and ensure it survived for hundreds if not thousands of years? And now he’d shattered it. He’d just destroyed _another_ tangible connection to his people’s history. Of course, a trapped soul was leagues away from a corrupted mirror, but now they were both shattered into shards and lost to history. His chest ached again as he stared into the room, his shoulders drooping and eyes stinging.

“Theron, are you okay?” Alistair called from a little further down the passageway behind him, his voice echoing, and the Dalish elf quickly turned and forced a smile.

“I’m fine.” He answered quickly as he rejoined the others. “Let’s keep going.”

**Author's Note:**

> I speak from firsthand experience when I say that terrifying auras, seizures, and the resulting gaping hole in your memory absolutely _suck_.
> 
> Concrit on this work, or any others I've posted, would be greatly appreciated!


End file.
